No good deed goes unpunished
by Baeraad
Summary: Desmond Flanagan banishes a demon like a responsible Celestial Chorister, but the consequences are... unexpected.


_Author's note: As all my stories, this is really one chapter in an ongoing storyline, though I like to think that it's possible to understand even for newcomers. For _interested _newcomers, though, I will say that the past events referred to in this story took place in _This Business of Saving the World

---

Desmond Flanagan was not, when it came right down to it, a charitable man.

It wasn't that he was especially selfish... he liked to think. He believed strongly in doing to others what he wanted done to himself. And what he wanted done to himself was to be left the heck alone and not bothered with people who either didn't listen to him or did listen and heard things he had definitely not intended to say.

Even so, there were things you just couldn't ignore, not if you wanted to retain the idea of yourself as even _remotely_ a righteous man. One of them was the sound of a child screaming in terror.

So when he heard that very sound from underneath the Amanda Bridge when out on his daily stroll through the city, he started running. He wasn't exactly sure where the scream had come from, but it was somewhere _under_ and to the _left _of where he was standing, and that was a start. For the rest, he'd just have to trust in the One and Prime and that tired old saying of Him helping the one who helped himself.

There was no one else around, which was bad in one way and good in another. The bad was that he was on his own. The good was that _as_ he was on his own, he could stretch the borders a little bit. People had trouble accepting some things, and what people had trouble accepting often had trouble _happening_. The One and Prime was obviously in favour of democracy, because the world was the _ultimate _democracy. Everyone had a saying in how it was supposed to go. At least as long as they were around to have that saying.

Since no one was, Desmond just jumped straight off of the bridge, fell ten meters or so down to the river-shore, landed on his feet and got up as if nothing had happened.

Another scream made him start running again, white hair and dark coat whipping around him. This kid was in trouble somewhere in the valve beneath the bridge. In the dark.

Desmond whispered a prayer to the effect of his eyes adjusting _really_ fast, and felt them do so.

He could see the child, now; a boy of perhaps eight, crouched on the floor and crying his heart out. Desmond couldn't quite see why. Maybe he had just scraped a knee or something, and all Desmond would have to do was to take him home. That wouldn't be too much of a bother, but somehow, Desmond doubted it.

"Son?" he said, harshly but not really unkindly. "Son, what's wrong?"

And then he gave off a shout of surprise as something brushed past his cheek, leaving a blazing pain in his wake. It felt like being cut with a razor-blade!

Desmond took a few steps back, but he heard his coat being ripped open at the sleeve, and felt another slash at his lower leg. Confused, he looked around. There was nothing there, nothing...

... something.

He had to strain his miraculously-quickly-adjusted eyes to the limit to see it, but there were shapes moving around in the air, much larger than insects, somewhat smaller than birds. He could see a dark streak on the boy's face, too... whatever these things were, they hadn't been kind to him.

Desmond cursed beneath his breath - a mild curse, but that didn't matter; Desmond could make old ladies faint with a "gosh darn it!" - and uttered another prayer, a more dangerous one. The One and Prime granted a lot of things, some of them free - or relatively so - and others with a price. This prayer had a price, but he couldn't fight vague shapes. He had to see.

No one could see it, in the dark, but over few seconds, Desmond's hazel eyes shifted into green ones, with slitted pupils, and the world before his eyes became painfully clear.

The things in front of him... first he thought it was garnitures, animated through some sort of spell, cast by some mage with a strange sense of humour. But a closer look told him that they weren't artificial. They weren't garnitures, either. Just twin rows of teeth, flying around in the air, slashing across unprotected skin and tearing at cloth. Some of them teeth-rows were already bloodied.

Desmond firmly told himself that he didn't have time to feel sick. He had a duty. He had taken oaths. But to deal with this, he would need something fairly extraordinary. And the price for that... It didn't bear to contemplate.

So, since he had no choice, he chose not to contemplate it.

"Spawn of the Pit," he intoned fiercely, raising his hands in the air (and almost got a finger bitten off in the process, but he wouldn't have noticed it if it had actually happened, not right now). "Unclean child of corruption! In the name of the One and Prime, whose all-powerful will guides the universe, I curse and banish you!"

You couldn't be sure what would happen, with something like this incantation. God didn't much approve of cocky servants. Of course, he didn't much approve of spineless ones, either. The key was knowing when to be either, and if Desmond had decided to be cocky when he should have been spineless...

The light that struck out from the palms of his hands cast the whole tunnel into brilliant illumination and stung in Desmond's transformed eyes. He heard a scream, as if from far away, pained and miserable and inhuman beyond comprehension.

When he could see again, the storm of teeth was hovering some distance back. It seemed to crouch, afraid and in pain. The boy it had been attacking was crying, but he was crying like a healthy lad, not one that was bleeding his life out on the ground. Good. Good.

Desmond couldn't deal with him right now, though. He had started this. If he didn't finish it, the demon would take him. Demons didn't show much mercy for the weak. They didn't know _how_ to show mercy. They saw weakness - they pounced. Pure evil was, after all, _pure_ - and therefore, very, very simple.

Desmond stepped over the boy and walked towards the demon, still with his hands raised.

"I curse and banish you!" he roared again.

Another blast of light. He could feel it going through his body this time, feel the raw stuff of the universe channelled through his weak, mortal body. It was wonderful, and beautiful, and painful enough that he wanted to lie down on the ground and sob.

The demon screamed again, and parts of it started coming together. It moved back, away from Desmond, fleeing. If it got away, it was just a matter of time before it healed and started going after little boys again.

"_Curse and banish you_!" Desmond screamed.

This time, when the light died out, it left him in darkness and oblivion.

---

When he woke up again, his first thought was that he was in pain. Yes. A great deal of pain, really. The kind of pain you got from grabbing an electric cattle-fence. And then grabbing it a few times more.

But, on the bright side, he was in fact feeling pain in _all_ his extremities, which meant they were (presumably) all attached. And he wasn't dead, because while dead people on occasion went to Hell, the demons usually didn't start the torture until they were sure they had their client's full attention.

He groaned and heaved himself up on his arms, blinking owlishly.

Two rows of teeth hovered in front of his face.

Desmond screamed in surprise - and a bit of fear; he was not a man to get afraid easily, but this was an unpleasant surprise and no mistake - and lashed out at it with his hand, forgetting for a moment that that was a perfect way to lose a hand.

His hand went straight through the teeth, without feeling anything but air.

Desmond blinked. Okay. That hadn't been in the script, he was fairly sure of that.

He slowly looked around, his eyes growing bigger for every bit of the scenery was revealed.

He was _surrounded_ by the frickin' things!

The teeth danced around him, chasing each other, smirking at him, nibbling at his sides (but without doing any harm; they might as well be air for all he could feel). He was _inside_ the demon, and not suffering any ill effects that he could see... though given how he was feeling from his own works of magick, any demon-originated ill effects would bloody well have to get in line.

The boy was gone, it seemed. Well, that was good. He had run home, presumably. The demon was no longer in a shape to hurt anyone... right?

Just to check, Desmond knocked on a wall. That felt solid enough. Meaning _he_ was solid. Not a ghost, not incorporeal for any other reason. Good. Good.

He got to his feet and walked down the tunnel, towards the daylight.

The demon followed, enshrouding him in its disturbing mass.

Desmond stopped. When it came to things he didn't want to do, the list was topped by such things as "betray the cause of Ascension" and "burn forever in the acid pits of Hell", but somewhere on that list, he felt very strongly, was "walk through town in broad daylight with flying teeth all around me".

Just for one thing, the Powers That Be frowned on that sort of thing. And when the Powers That Be frowned, it was more than just a movement of the lips. It had more to do with grabbing the perpetrator, strapping him down in a safehouse and brainwashing him into being a good little disciple of reason and science and everyday mundane reality.

Desmond crossed his arms over his chest, grinding his own teeth.

He stood that way for a very long time. Then, he said, with emphasis that would not only have made old ladies faint but which would have soured milk and made dogs howl:

"Drat."

---

It was quite a few hours later. Night had descended on the city of Dougal, which meant that demon-infested ex-preachers could move stealthily to an apartment of a friend, without being seen by any Powers, ones that Be or any other.

The friend in question was one Kevin Harsh. Kevin was British. Formally speaking. But Desmond had a feeling that Kevin had once been run out of Great Britain for being _too_ much of a tea-drinking, condescending, more-cultured-than-thou snob. Not that Kevin wasn't his very good friend and he'd die for the man and everything, but it was hard to remember that when the damn guy was standing there grinning at him.

"Well," Kevin said happily. "This is... a bold fashion statement, one must agree."

He was taller than Desmond, handsome in extreme, and had long, curly blonde hair. He was wearing a pricey suit. There were some things that would make Kevin _not _wear one of his suits, but the fact that he was home alone and no one was likely to see him was not one of them. Kevin _worked _on being a gentleman.

Desmond glared.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said. "Get it out of your system. I know how ridiculous I look."

"Well, I wouldn't say ridiculous," Kevin said thoughtfully. "Not ridiculous, as such... I mean, if you were to walk into a public establishment, I think people would be more inclined to scream and run than to laugh and point fingers, on the whole..."

Desmond closed his eyes, repeated "turn the other cheek, turn the other cheek" to himself fifteen times, and then opened them again.

"Can you get _rid _of it?" he said.

"Possibly, possibly..." Kevin put one hand in front of his eyes, whispered something in Latin, and then removed it again. With a look of interest on his face, he walked around Desmond, studying him from all sides.

Desmond waited as patiently as he could. He was not, by nature, a patient man. He was a man who wanted to _do _something, _now _preferably. Unfortunately, there were areas where he knew what he was doing, and areas where he did not. All things demonic were one of those latter areas. Kevin, being a heathen Hermetic, knew a lot about demons, and was therefore the person to go to.

No matter _how _annoying he was being.

"_Well_?" Desmond demanded.

"It seems basic enough," Kevin said. He smiled and leaned on his elegant cane. "How about this? I get rid of your little demonic infestation. And in return..."

"Wait. Stop." Desmond waved his hands in front of him. "What's with the I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine routine? Aren't we friends?"

"We are," Kevin said shamelessly. "And what are friends for if not a bit of civilised back-scratching?"

Desmond groaned.

"Oh, very well. What is it you want me to do?"

"Well." Kevin grinned. "It so happens that the good Mrs Deerheart did me a bit of a favour a while back. So now I owe her a favour, which is not something I enjoy, given that Mrs Deerheart is... oh, how should I put this gently? I can't. A harridan. She is a harridan."

Desmond gave Kevin a flat stare.

"Oh, and it's all right for _me_ to have to work for a harridan, but not for you?"

Kevin smiled innocently. "Well, you _do_ hail from a nation that prides itself on its virility. I, on the other hand, hail from a nation that prides itself on its civilised approach to things. So in essence, better you than me, my friend."

Desmond grimaced. He'd get Kevin for this. He _would_. Somehow, someway, a certain smug wizard would pay dearly. Just not right now, when he had intangible teeth circling him...

"Why should she accept my favour as a substitute for yours?" he said. "You have some skills she doesn't. I haven't really studied anything she doesn't do at least as well."

Kevin waved that away.

"Oh, I daresay you know a few tricks she doesn't... and even if you don't, anything you do, she won't have to. No, I would advocate a going to meet with the respected matriarch of the Deerheart clan as soon as possible."

Desmond groaned. Kevin looked at him for a moment, then took pity on him.

"There _may_ be another alternative," he allowed.

Desmond looked up. "Name it. Anything."

"My terms for exorcising that demon of yours have been told," Kevin said with dignity. "But you could always ask Veronica."

Desmond blinked.

"Veronica's in Hell."

"As a matter of fact, no, she's not," Kevin said matter-of-factly. "Not as of about two o'clock this afternoon. She materialised right out there on the street, exactly where she disappeared. Made quite a commotion, I must say. She spent a few hours under my able care, and then she said she wanted to go home. She would be there now, I imagine."

Desmond took a deep breath and counted to ten.

"And this," he said, very slowly and patiently, "you did not consider to be important enough to mention until now?"

"Well, you _did_ walk in here surrounded by flying rows of teeth," Kevin said, gently rebuking. "That kind of thing tends to catch a fellow's attention, you know. I mean, just compare the two, would you? Veronica _was_ in hell, versus, you _are _possessed by a demon. Past tense against present tense. An easy choice, wouldn't you say?"

Desmond sighed, but had to agree that Kevin was right about that. "How is she?" he said. "Is she all right?"

"It seemed so," Kevin said. "A bit worn, perhaps. But still the same old girl."

"Well, I'm going to go see her at once," Desmond said, grabbing his coat. "I just hope she won't mind one more demon..."

---

It had been weeks since that night. It had, as nights went, been a very bad one. There had been shooting, and fire, and death. There had been a mystery, too - the mystery of just why four seemingly normal people had decided that the cabal of the Children of Sunset needed to be destroyed. When the night was over, two of the four members were in the hospital, and one was... gone.

Veronica practiced a brand of ancient Chinese black magic. Her domain was the Thousand Hells. She could call on demons, or deal with them when she found them. And if she was really desperate, if there was no other choice, she could step into their domain.

Getting out... that was another matter.

Searching through the endless expands of the Far Shores to find a single soul was probably undoable, even for three skilled mages. So the remaining Children of Sunset had waited. And hoped. And prayed, to three different divine principles.

As Desmond knew very well, sometimes prayers were answered.

Veronica's apartment door was not locked. It never was, at that. What worldly possession Veronica kept, she wasn't fond enough of to make an effort to keep... and as for the more exotic things that could be found in her home, well... if someone stole them, he would never steal anything else, ever again.

Desmond walked in.

All lights were out, which for a moment made Desmond anxious. Kevin believed that truth was holy, and so wouldn't lie... especially not to a friend... especially not about something this important... _right_? He was quickly reassured, though. He could hear someone breathing softly in one of the inner rooms.

Everything in Veronica's apartment was... well, the word "neat" came to mind. Everything was very carefully arranged, according to whatever that arrange-your-furniture-for-better-fortune thing that people kept telling him about was called. Another word that came to mind was "exotic". For all her insistence that the material meant nothing, Veronica had a very clear theme to her belongings, and that theme hailed from several thousand miles away and several thousand years back in time.

He found her sitting on the floor in the dark in the inner-most room, her back against the door. From where he stood, he could see a thin back, with lots of wild-grown black hair spilling down it. One hand with long, black-painted nails was placed at the floor by the woman's black-dressed hip.

"Have you come to take me back?" Veronica said, not turning around. Her voice had a faint accent, not belonging to any particular country, but rather a number of them.

"Ah," Desmond said. "Yes. Quite. I'm sure that trick would have impressed a _real_ demon very much, Veronica. Seeing as it's me, though..."

Veronica turned - but slowly, serenely; hurrying was never her way - and looked at him with surprise. Then she got to her feet, just as slowly, and bowed gracefully.

"Desmond," she said. "My heart is warmed by the sight of you."

Desmond considered that for a moment. Then he took two steps forward and gave the thin woman a great big bear-hug, which made her gasp in surprise.

"Try not to do that to me again, okay?" he said. "I have a very strict policy against my friends wandering around in the Adversary's neighbourhood."

"I... shall endeavour to keep the situation from reoccurring," Veronica said. Her voice was somewhat muffled from her mouth being pressed against his chest, but she didn't really sound displeased.

Desmond would have liked to hold her for a while longer, just to convince himself that she was really back, but he knew that she didn't like overt displays of emotion, and so let her go and stepped back. He took a careful look at her. She didn't look too bad - a bit worn, like Kevin had said, and perhaps there were a few lines in her face that hadn't been there before, but she seemed healthy enough.

"Desmond..." Veronica said, her tone and face unreadable.

"Yeah?"

"You have disembodied teeth circling you."

He sighed.

"And here was me hoping you wouldn't notice."

Veronica walked around him in carefully measured steps, looking at him. Kevin had looked at him the same way, Desmond recalled. She was looking with her _full_ sight, the one that was the first that a mage learned and the last a mage ever forgot, the one that showed the world as it really was. To develop the sight was easy enough - to figure out what you saw was very difficult. Desmond knew a very few areas well enough that he could interpret what the sight told him about them. A person's body and soul, mostly - he had always been something of a people person. He could look at the demon all he wanted, though, and all he saw was... stuff.

"Interesting," Veronica said.

"Is it?" Desmond said, without too much enthusiasm. When a mage said that something was interesting, it generally meant that lots of experimenting and research would be needed. Desmond had said 'interesting' in that tone a number of times, and he recalled that the people he had said it too had looked a lot like he felt right now, which was like someone who really, really wished he wasn't interesting.

"Yes..." Veronica returned to her position in front of him, watching him calmly with tilted head and narrow eyes. "It's not a demon."

Desmond wasn't going to argue. She was the expert. If she said it wasn't a demon, then it wasn't a demon. But if it wasn't a demon...

"Then what _is_ it?" he said, trying not to sound impatient.

"It's a manifestation of unrest in the fabric of the All," Veronica said.

Desmond watched her unemotionally.

"In common parlance, a hobgoblin," Veronica said.

Desmond groaned. Right. Of course. He _should_ have known.

Hobgoblins were... well, when you broke the rules of the universe as most people saw them, you caused a ripple. More often than not, that ripple struck back at you, causing one form of annoyance or another. And sometimes, it turned... semi-sentient.

There had been a demon, no doubt about _that_. But he had killed it. What he had around him was just the result of the _way _he had killed it, using powerful and blatant magicks in complete disregard of what was considered possibly by most people. He had blasted the demon with the pure stuff of Creation. And Creation, in retaliation, had made him wear an image of the demon as a shroud.

"I was arrogant," he admitted. "But it seemed to be the only way."

Veronica only watched him, neither judging nor freeing.

"But I suppose..." he said slowly, "... that I could have carried the child that was being attacked to safety, and then called for someone more capable of dealing subtly with the demon than I was."

"All things," Veronica said, sounding like she was talking to herself, "affect all other things. And no one is fit to deal with every aspect of the All."

"Right," Desmond said, smiling wryly. "I'm guessing you can't get this thing off me, huh?"

Veronica shook her head slowly.

"No," Desmond said. "This is the One and Prime punishing me for being arrogant. If I want to get rid of it, I must prove myself humble, like our Saviour washing the feet of his disciples. I must abandon all dignity and submit myself to the most humiliating experience imaginable. In other words, I must…"

---

"Get a move on, you useless piece of lard!" the elderly woman growled. She was thin and straight-backed, with long, grey hair and a face that seemed to say clearer than any word coming out of her mouth that for all things there was a right way and a wrong way, and the right way was the one _she_ was telling you about. "Are you slacking off? You are, aren't you?"

"No, Mrs Deerheart," Desmond growled as he hurried along behind her, trying to keep up.

"After you've healed this idiot from up north," Samara Deerheart said, "you're going to get out into the garden and gather up Tass for us! And then you're going to distil it! And then you're going to impart it on my Coven! And you're going to do this before the end of the hour, you monotheist idiot!"

"Yes, Mrs Deerheart," Desmond groaned. If the One and Prime was merciful, the hobgoblin would disappear after no more than a few days of this...


End file.
